Quesy is the smell of something untasted to most.

A certain flavor savored to all.

Amidst the season of distaste to none.

Unappetizing the palette of permanence.

Mouthwatering the tasteless.

Sweet dishes,

Bitter crumbs,

An eager tongue feeds, but the mouth never eats.

A bland aftertaste make for no meal.

A stomach starved, I survive,


This poem is about: 
My community


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